


Superstition Upon Common Sense

by Xela



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Blasphemy, Crack, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-09
Updated: 2011-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-14 14:24:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xela/pseuds/Xela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel sets out to find God and ends up finding himself. Or something. Henry the shrimp doesn't really care, as he's already been deep fried.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Superstition Upon Common Sense

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morgentau](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=morgentau).



Castiel hands Dean his medallion back without a word.

"Did you find God?" Dean asks with a smirk, slipping it back on with a relieved sigh. Castiel looks back at him, too serious.

"Yes." Dean's left gaping at the empty space where Castiel used to be.

***

Dean runs into Castiel in a bar. Drinking.

Which, okay, isn't all that odd since he decided to make the most of what time he has left before Raphael hunts him down, filled with righteous douchebaggery. What's giving Dean pause is that Castiel is drinking with _intent._ There's an empty bottle of vodka in front of him, and he's making in roads on a bottle of Wild Turkey.

"You find out God really is dead or something?" Dean asks, sliding into the seat beside Cas. Jesus, Cas smells like a brewery.

"I am drinking my festival of atonement," Castiel says sarcastically, and raises his glass in a salute. Dean has no idea what Cas is talking about, which isn't really anything new. Castiel slants a look at him and downs the bourbon. "Nietzsche. I liked him." If Castiel were anyone--any _thing_ \--else, Dean would think he was depressed. Dean considers pouring himself a finger of bourbon, then remembers what happened the last time he danced with the Turkey and...well, there are at least two midgets and a bearded woman who will never be the same again. He orders a Jack straight up from the bartender and watches Castiel chug two glasses in rapid succession. The third holds up a little longer, but that could be because Castiel seems fascinated with the carvings on the bar top, tracing "Ellen lurvs Cohn" over and over with the tip of his finger. It's...kind of distracting, and Dean would really rather not think about why, so he signals for the drinks to keep on coming and stops counting his own.

Dean realizes he's drunk in the middle of debating whether or not Ellen and Cohn have three kids or two. Castiel is of the opinion Cohn wanted a big family and Ellen has selfishly kept him from that dream by refusing to have more than two. Dean thinks if Cohn wants more kids he can carry them himself. Cas gets so outraged he stands up, swaying like a tree in a hurricane. Dean's angel blinks slowly, then loses the plot with a smile.

"I believe I am drunk." Cas punctuates his statement by tilting dangerously to the left. Dean snags his arm and reels Drunky McDrunkerson back in. Cas topples into him, face smashed into Dean's shoulder, and hums.

"I believe you are," Dean agrees and shoves Castiel back into his chair. Except Castiel can't seem to figure out how to sit in the chair and ends up with his head mashed against the bar, ass sticking out for the world to see. He slowly slides down the bar, doing a fair impression of a person riding the elevation. Dean studies the drink selection planning what he'll order next. Maybe something fruity, he likes fruit.

"Why is the chair running from me?" The mumbled question floats up from below. On the wings of angels. Dean giggles at his pun-joke thing, then puts on his serious face.

"I think it's offended," Dean offers gravely. Castiel's face falls and he begins apologizing to the chair, meaning it no ill will and thanking it for admirably performing its duty. Satisfied that he's appeased the furniture, Castiel picks up the drink Dean nicely poured for him and develops a drinking problem: he misses his mouth and spills the bourbon down the front of his shirt. Castiel stares at the stain with such affronted incredulity that Dean feels embarrassed on the stain's behalf.

"More?" Dean offers, and Castiel's smile blinds him. The bartender doesn't want to give them anymore alcohol, but Cas works some drunken angel MoJo and Dean is drinking a truly tasty Bahama Mamma.

"Fred!" Castiel chirps. Dean blinks. He's never heard anyone chirp, not even Sam who makes all kinds of ridiculous noises like _all the time._ "Henry! Bob!"

"Bob?" Dean slurs to himself. When Dean convinces his eyes to focus on Castiel, his angel is...talking to someone's shrimp cocktail? And apparently naming the shrimp...Bob.

"Mark. Hello, Gabriel!" Cas waves down at one of the shrimp, a ridiculously goofy smile on his face. "Gaaaaaaaaaabriel. Ga-bri-el. Gabriel! Dean, look at my lips, Ga...bri...EL!" Castiel has pretty lips.

"That's...that's, great, Cas, really great!" Dean agrees with a sloppy smile. His face feels fantastically numb.

"YOU ATE HENRY!" Dean's head swivels around and he watches, slack-jawed, as Castiel tackles a surprised patron to the ground. "YOU **ATE. HENRY!"**

And then the whole bar explodes. Two guys try to grab Cas, and Dean doesn't like anyone touching his angel so he dumps his Bahma Mamma down the back of someone's shirt. Only in his drunken confusion he accidentally hits some girl bystander, whose wannabe-boyfriend takes exception to Dean's actions and punches Dean in the face. Which means the bar staff now has two drunken brawls to break up instead of one, and the violence spreads like a ripple effect. The only truly clear images Dean has are of Cas clutching two handfuls of deep fried shrimp yelling "Save Fred!" and this one old man who never gets up off his stool or even turns around to see what's going on.

Dean and Cas are unceremoniously thrown out of the bar with strong warnings to never come back. Even so, they're both giggling drunkenly on the gravel, sprawled next to each other. Cas's tie is skewed and he looks...Dean really tries to think of a better word, but his drunken brain insists on playing 'debauched' on repeat.

They lay beside each other for a little while, and Dean thinks the way the stars swirl together is kind of awesome. Nauseating, but awesome. Also, gravel-angels aren't nearly as awesome to make as snow-angels.

"So what happened?" Dean blurts. "I mean, we should totally do this more but Whiskey-Tequila-F...fran...fuck?" Even Dean's swirly, drunk brain can tell he's made a mistake. He can practically see Cas sobering up before his eyes, his posture growing rigid, that bitchy blank expression of angelic disdain crossing his face. He stands up far too smoothly, hands shoved in the pockets of his trench coat. It's really unfair because Dean is still very drunk, and the swirling stars are no longer prettier than the nausea.

"The abyss looked back," Castiel says sourly, and then disappears.

"What the hell does that mean?" Dean yells at the air. "Cas? Cas! You left Bob!"

***

"Soooo...what's up with Cas?" Sam asks one day, apropos of nothing. Dean shrugs and scrolls down. He figures he'll get maybe two hours of laptop time before Sam needs another fix and steals it back.

 _Supposing that Truth is a woman—what then?_ Dean smirks and settles back against the pillows. That's one helluva way to start a book. Especially since the answer, in Dean's expert opinion, is _you're fucked._ He wonders how long it will take to get the whole abyss thing and if it'll have something to do with hot chicks.

"He seems...distracted. And he's looking scruffy. Which, you know, for a guy who never changes clothes is saying something." Sam scowls at the small smirk on Dean's face. "Dean!" Dean instinctively clicks over to the porn loaded in the background. Sam hovers over him like a disapproving mother hen, blushing at the five-some writhing on the screen.

"What?" Dean asks belligerently, making a show of tearing his eyes away from the amateur porn stars. Sam rolls his eyes and glares.

"Stop watching porn. You're going to give my computer a virus."

"Porn is good for the brain," Dean says dismissively. He clicks over to the other site when Sam stalks away grumbling. Nietzsche's kind of fucked up. Dean kind of likes him.

***

Dean imagines he's dreaming about a quiet lake with a fold-up chair, a cooler of beer, and a fishing pole with no hook. He'd like to emphasize the _quiet_ part of the dream. As in silent. No talking. At all.

"Dean, Dean, Dean. You can't run forever." Zachariah drones on and Dean thinks about how unfair it is that he can't make Zach shut the hell up in his own head. They're his dreams, damn it, he should have a say in who gets invited in. "The demons want you, we want you. You're a rat caught in a maze with no exits. And one day, we're going to catch you. Them or us, Dean. That's your only choice." Zachariah looms above him in all his pompous glory.

"You are ruining my happy place," Dean says crossly and starts reeling in his line.

"...I can make it so you never have need for a _happy place_ ever again."

"Dude!" Dean drops the pole and covers his crotch. "You did not just threaten my _manhood!_ Jesus, just no!" Dean needs to get Zachariah a copy of the bro-code because that is just wrong. Dean fervently wishes he could wipe that smarmy grin of Zachariah's face. Dean feels something in his hand and looks down. There's a standard yellow No. 2 pencil dangling between his fingers, newly sharpened with a never-used eraser.

"Huh." Dean cocks his head, trying to figure out why his brain gave him a pencil for a weapon.

"The pen is mightier than the sword," Zachariah spits, disgusted. "Humans. See, it's sayings like that..."

Dean looks up at Zachariah, down at his pencil, and does the only logical thing. He erases Zachariah's mouth.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing you psychotic mud monkey?!" Zach doesn't say.

"Oh, this is going to be fun!" Dean crows, and promptly sketches out a handlebar mustache. Zachariah glares at him, though the effect is ruined by the way his eyes cross as he tries to look down his nose at his newly acquired facial hair.

"I will smite you with all the power of Heaven and send you down to the lowest depths of Hell!" Zachariah projects with all his fury. Dean draws a thought bubble that says "I'm a douche" and figures it's a pretty good summation of everything that comes out of the angel's mouth. He then augments the mustache with a full head of dread locks, a top hat, and a mime tear. Zachariah looks like he's about to have an aneurysm. Dean adds a spiked dog collar as an after thought, scrawling "Little Bitch" on the tag.

"That's a good look for you," Dean says with a grin, twirling his bright yellow pencil. "How do you feel about clown noses?"

"I'm going to kill you! And your little ~~dog~~ brother too!" floats through Zachariah's thought bubble.

"You will not." Castiel appears in front of Zach looking dangerous. Dean draws himself some popcorn because there's something about this post-drinking binge Cas that's making Zachariah fidgety.

"Traitor!" scrolls over Zachariah's head in bold flashing red font. "We'll use your pinion feathers for boas, you #$%*ing apost...#$%*!"

"No swearing in my head," Dean calls out smugly. "I'm trying to retain my innocence." Zachariah glares daggers at Dean, which bounce harmlessly off his chest.

"You are unrelentingly obnoxious and lack imagination," Castiel mutters, and it sounds strangely like a self-recrimination. Zach glares at Cas, and if looks could kill Castiel would be angel ashes. "Are you done?" It takes Dean a second to realize Cas is talking to him.

"Oh, yeah, we're done with the dress-up portion of the evening," Dean says with a magnanimous wave of his hand. Castiel nods and flicks Zachariah in the nose. Dean catches a fleeting glimpse of Zachariah's outraged face and laughs, throwing his head back. When he's done, tears gathered in his eyes, Cas is looking at him fondly with the ghost of a smile.

"So was that what you've been doing these past few weeks? Picking up your sense of humor?" Dean asks, coming down from his high.

"In effect."

"You wanna add anything to that scintillating and incredibly informative piece of information?" Castiel cocks his head to one side, as if truly contemplating Dean's question.

"Nope!" Cas disappears in a flash of bright light and Dean sits bolt upright in bed.

"Dean?" Sam's slouched over his laptop looking like he hasn't slept in days. Which is possible, Sam is fucking epic when it comes to being guilty.

"Weird dream," Dean grunts.

***  
Dean ends up dyed bright pink.

"Laugh and die," Dean growls. He tugs on a black t-shirt that Sam thinks sets off his skin tone _perfectly_...right up until it turns a deep mauve color. Every single article of Dean's clothing turns some shade of pink within five minutes of him putting it on, including his shoes. Dean swears in disgust and throws the stupid shirt into a pile of similarly-colored clothing.

"Laela could have turned you into a Sparkle Pony," Sam says, voice straining to stay level. Dean glares, because he knows Sam is laughing on the inside. His eyes are watering and his lips are pressed into a thin line. Restraint looks like constipation on him. "I am sorry about your jacket though."

Dean's favorite leather jacket--the one he's spent almost 10 years breaking in--is now a very delicate pale pink, with dark pink lining.

"Did you know when you get mad, your skin looks almost metallic?" Sam asks in awe. Dean ignores his brother and makes a notation in the journal: do not mock 5 year-old witches. He throws the newly annotated journal at Sam's head and locks himself in the bathroom.

Where he finds out _everything_ is pink. Like, everything.

"SON OF A BITCH!" Sam doesn't even ask what's wrong, the bastard just starts cracking up, his laughter loud even through the door. "LAUGH IT UP, CHUCKLES. I'M NOT LEAVING THIS ROOM UNTIL I NO LONGER LOOK LIKE STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE!"

\---

In retrospect, comparing himself to Strawberry Shortcake was a mistake that Sam makes him pay for every day. Especially when Sam convinces Cas that 'shoty' is an appropriate appellation for Dean.

\---

"So how is this thing supposed to work?" Dean asks one day, bored out of his mind. By now the pink has faded to the point where he could have claimed bad sunburn were this not the middle of winter in Illinois. He stares cross-eyed down at his chest where his amulet rests.

"Once consecrated with holy oil, it will spin when near God's presence, and glow as you get closer."

"Holy oil? Like that stuff we used on Raphael?"

"Yes."

"Huh. And that's it?" Castiel stares at him, clearly heading towards the end of his patience. "No freaky angel words or spells or prayers? Just lube it up and watch it lay down on the job?" Castiel shrugs and that's the end of it.

Well, it would be the end of it if Dean weren't trapped in the worst decorated motel this side of the 70's while the witchlet's curse slowly runs its course. It makes for _seriously boring_ , utterly endless days with nauseating wallpaper and nothing to do. And besides, Dean's just got this super precious, extremely rare oil laying around and no archangels to use it on. What else is he supposed to do?

"Do you have any kind of impulse control?" Sam scoffs. They're both itching to get away from one another, too long in one place and cramped quarters.

"I haven't put a bullet in you yet," Dean says cheerfully. There's an edge to the words though, and Sam wisely shuts the fuck up. He pulls his amulet out of the oil and watches the excess drip off the end. For super holy oil, it smells like crap. "This sucks." Dean wipes his medallion off and wonders if he'd get in trouble for jacking off with the oil.

"Yes!" Sam growls, slamming his computer shut. Dean realizes he's been talking out loud again and grins unrepentantly. "I'm going out." Sam slams the door and Dean gives himself 100 points considering he hadn't even been trying to make Sam mad. Upon reflect, he has to take away 50 of those points because now he's bored and he can't annoy Sam.

Dean runs through his stand by de-borification exercises: craziest sprawl over the bed (one leg up the headboard, the other on the bedside table, torso hanging down off the bed, one arm stretched towards the far end of the bed, the other hanging down uselessly); switching Sam's clean clothes with his laundry; a long, steamy wank in the shower using half of Sam's bath products in the process. He pees in what's left.

He's still bored by the time he runs out of ideas, so he starts flipping channels, settling on what he hopes is an amusing vampire movie. They're always fun to mock. Only this one...this one is different.

 **"Vampires do not fucking SPARKLE!"** Dean yells at the screen, incensed. "What is this fuckery?!" He watches in horror as the most insipid group of teens to ever grace celluloid murders every thing good in the world one piece of crappy dialogue at a time. A quick flip through the TV Guide reveals a title: _Twilight._ He watches the movie for a few more minutes with a growing sense of dread and despair. He can feel his lifeforce draining out of him, but he's so stupefied by the stupidity on the TV that he can't do anything but curl in on himself protectively, the insipid actors on the screen battering his mind with horrible dialogue compounded by horrible acting and thinly-veiled religious propaganda. Why, exactly, are they trying to save a world that has...this. In it. Apparently with several sequels. Dean whimpers and feels his brain start leaking out of his ear.

In a stunning example of self-preservation, his hand finds the remote and changes the channel. Dean doesn't even check to see what's on, just huddles against the headboard, terrified out of his mind. _Sparkly. Vampires._

Eventually, the happy-bright sounds of an cartoon filter thought Dean's post traumatic meltdown. The cartoon is as promised: bright, happy, and once Dean's brain cells have been convinced they're no longer in danger of frying, kind of smart. These Phineas and Ferb guys have something, and it's not just a platypus.

He's halfway through the _Phineas & Ferb_ marathon on Disney, trying to figure out what Sam might do if he comes home to a room full of roller coaster parts, when something starts twisting against his chest.

"What the fuck?" Dean stares down at his shirt. There's a lump pulling away in the front, and the soft leather of his amulet starts biting into his neck. Every time he pushes the amulet down, it springs back up, more intent than before. Like it's a magnet being pulled towards-- "No way. There is no way..." Dean pulls the amulet out from under his shirt and it springs away, parallel to the ground. It's pointing towards the far corner of the room. It starts shaking, making a low whine as the metal twists against itself.

"Holy Shit. _Holy shit!"_ The amulet starts glowing like an ember and Dean scrambles to his feet. He can't meet God sitting down. Dean abruptly realizes he's in boxers and a threadbare t-shirt. Oh God. Wait, he means, Oh Ch--fuc--Gosh darn it! A soft pop fills the room and Dean spins around to face...

Castiel. Dean blinks. It's just Cas standing there. With the God-compass pointing right at him and glowing brightly. Dean blinks. Opens his mouth. Shuts it. Shakes his because...because...

"Why are there sparkly vampires?" The totally inane and ridiculous question comes out squeaky. Dean clears his throat and drops his voice down to a more manly register. "Cas--" Shit, too low, he sounds like he's been on a three-day bender with a Tijuana transvestite prostitute. Not that he'd actually know what that was like...

"Vampires do not sparkle," Castiel says, looking mildly alarmed. He steps towards Dean, who takes an automatic step back. Castiel pauses, then his eyes flick to the amulet and he scowls. "That resonates at an increasingly annoying frequency." The amulet falls against Dean's chest, just a lump of ordinary metal. Dean tries very, very hard not to freak out.

"You. You." Dean snaps his mouth shut. When he feels strong enough, he lets out a breath. "So I guess you...found yourself?" Dean's smile feels tremulous and brittle. From the actual look of concern that flits across Castiel's face, he looks ever worse.

"I did," Castiel agrees softly.

"That's it?" Dean demands. "'I did.' That's all you... _you could have turned me back!"_

"Oh. Yes." Cas looks contrite and snaps his fingers. Dean feels a brief tingle suffuse his body. When he looks down he's been restored to his full non-pink glory. Even his jacket. Impossibly, it's the jacket that brings it home for Dean.

"You're God."

"Yes."

"You're...God."

"Yes."

"But you can't be God," Dean protests, feeling empty and lost. "You're Cas."

***

Sam puts up with Dean's emo bullshit for a week. That's all he can take, and as much as he rags on Dean about never letting him drive the car, Sam really loathes driving. Once in a while, sure, he can deal. But a solid week of Dean sitting in the passenger seat wearing dark sunglasses, the same shirt/sweatpants combo, and listening to a tape that had once been called "Cassie" and relabeled "Castiel." It's about a subtle as a ton of bricks and Sam wonders if Dean finally caught a clue, but seriously, if Sam has to listen to _November Rain_ one more time...

"Get out of the car." Dean snorts and crosses his arms over his chest. Sam's pretty sure Dean is glaring behind his dark Ray Bans. "I've let you brood for a week. I drove you to the Grand Canyon. Get out of the car, Dean."

"No." Sam grits his teeth.

"What the fuck is going on? You said Cas isn't dead so--"

"Don't call him that!" Dean snarls, suddenly out of the car and in Sam's face.

"What? Cas?" Dean makes a strangled, animal noise that has Sam slowly backing away, hands up. No sudden moves to startle the crazy person. Dean glares at Sam once he realizes what's going on. Sam shrugs unapologetically and keeps his hands up. "You can start explaining any time. But I'm not driving anymore."

"Put your hands down, you look like an idiot." Dean's shoulder clips Sam as he pushes past him, walking towards the edge of the canyon. Sam scrambles to catch up, _Thou shalt not kill your asshole brother_ repeating in his mind. Dean walks right up to the edge of the Grand Canyon. For a terrifying moment, Sam doesn't think he's going to stop. Even now the tips of his shoes hang over the edge.

"Cas found God," Dean hisses into the air. Rocks clatter down the canyon face, falling until Sam can't hear them anymore. And then Sam actually hears what Dean said.

"HE WHAT?" Sam's heart leaps into his throat when Dean abruptly sits down, legs dangling over the edge. Heights aren't really his thing and seeing Dean so casual about his life is really disturbing. "Could we, maybe, just move this conversation back about three feet?  And what the hell, Dean?"

"Okay, I lied," Dean says into the steep drop.  He wiggles forward toward the edge of the cliff and shoots Sam a calculating look.  Sam swallows and forces down his anxiety. He will not feed into Dean's pettiness. "Castiel didn't find God. Castiel _is_ God."

"Real funny, Dean," Sam says sarcastically. After the week of sappy angsting, Sam really isn't in the mood to deal with Dean's sense of humor. "Seriously, can you get away from the edge?"

"Funny? Funny is watching you use shampoo I peed in." Sam has a brief, intense vision of shoving Dean into the gaping maw of the Canyon. It would be so, so easy. "Funny is not finding out your, your angel is actually the big man in the sky." There's a rawness to Dean's voice that gives Sam pause.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes." They both start at the sound of Castiel's voice. Dean so much that he loses his balance and starts slipping into the giant thousand-foot drop and Sam forgets to breathe. Except the world kind of _lurches_ and Dean collapses in an undignified heap next to Sam. Castiel leans against the car, hands jammed in his trench coat, blue eyes intent upon Dean.

"What? But that--how?" Sam stammers, eyes wide.  A million questions roll through his mind, which has ground to an absolute halt.

"I placed myself in this position," Castiel says, sounding weary. "I am Castiel as surely as I am God. I am constrained, of my own will, to the rules of this form."

"He's God but he's not God while he's Cas, because he is Castiel and therefore...both is and isn't God at the same time," Dean explains helpfully.  He would laugh at the confusion on Sam's face, but he still he's still pissed at Castiel.  God.  Whatever.  Not like he hasn't spent most of his life this way.  He just has a physical form to hate now.

"I have selected to be a part of this confrontation as Castiel."

"Why?" Sam asks, sounding small.

"I don't know."

"You-you don't know?" Sam's face does its best impression of Renée Zellweger, eyes squinting until they're barely discernible, mouth tightening into a pouting moue of discontent.

"He also doesn't know why there are sparkly vampires," Dean adds unhelpfully.

"That," Castiel says, flushing a bit, "is an unfortunate side effect of free will."

"You're _God,_ " Sam says dazedly.

"And we're back where we started. Yay." Dean gives a little rah-rah cheer, but his heart isn't in it.

"Right," Castiel says authoritatively and snaps his fingers. The world bends around them and they're all standing in the motel room.

"Holy shit," Sam gasps and sits down on the bed.

"Ditto," Dean says weakly. Knowing Cas is God and practical demonstrations are two entirely different things. "My car--"

"Is outside," Castiel assures Dean. "Sam, would you go somewhere else please?"

"W-what?"

"Somewhere. Else. That is not here." Castiel stares at Sam in that familiar creepy way and Sam makes himself scarce. When God asks you to leave him alone with your older brother in a hotel room, well. Sam's not one to judge.

Dean scowls as Sam high-tails it out of the room like his ass is on fire.

"Coward," he mutters.

"Accommodating," Castiel corrects. He glides towards Dean with intent in his step, fire in his eyes, and Dean shrinks back, his heart pounding wildly. Cas's fingers trail lightly over Dean's face. "You are my most favorite creation."

"Dads aren't supposed to play favorites," Dean snarls. He hates the way his heart is racing, how completely out of control Castiel makes him feel. How betrayed.

"I shall endeavor to keep the rest of the world from knowing," Castiel assures him. He presses closer and Dean can feel the heat of his body. "Particularly the Baptists."

"Wh-what about the Catholics?" Dean asks, stumbling back. But Castiel keeps advancing.

"No, the Catholics are quite convinced of their own superiority. Nothing _I_ say will change that."

Castiel kisses Dean, hot and passionate, and Dean...well it's hard to be mad at a higher power when he kisses like that. For a moment, Dean touches perfection. And it has nothing to do with God.

"It was not my intent to mislead you," Castiel murmurs.

"You should have told me," Dean says, but he finds himself strangely unable to pull off sullen with Castiel's tongue dragging up the column of his throat.

"I...needed time. To determine the proper course of action."

"Took you long enough," Dean grumbles. He's not talking about Castiel's decision to stay Cas.

"Henry finally convinced me to talk to you," Castiel admits. Dean blinks, trying to remember who Henry is. Something chitters and Dean turns to see...a giant prawn floating on the room, it's stalky eyes watching him and Cas. It waves one long feeler at Dean as if in hello.

"You rescued Henry?" Dean asks, mind swimming with the logistics of de-masticating a shrimp.

"I work in mysterious ways."  


Blasphemy is an epithet bestowed by superstition upon common sense. -Robert Green Ingersoll

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] Superstition Upon Common Sense](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5698951) by [exmanhater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exmanhater/pseuds/exmanhater)




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